


RE:

by Bovinity



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crusade, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Pirates, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Prostitution, alternate universe - cowboys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bovinity/pseuds/Bovinity
Summary: Imagine finding the perfect love story.Imagine having to die for it.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. RE:SIST

**Author's Note:**

> This is a scrapped work for the Reaper76 week 2018, but I have decided to publish this story as its own work.  
> Enjoy~

Agony. There was no other word to describe it; searing flames licking at flesh until it blackened with a sickening smell, blood barely able to ooze out of wounds – but the few drops that managed to squeeze itself out only fuelled the fire. Hotter and hotter, until the flames reached past flesh and blood, burning deep into soft organs and ivory bones, and cackling in delight as the bones agonisingly turned to char. The bones should have fallen, signalling the end of the torment.

But they stood tall – flames receding just enough to see organs, blood and flesh slowly returning.

Then the flames returned.

… … …

The sudden stop of the carriage rudely woke up the dark man from his slumber, muddy eyes flying open in a scowl as he quickly surveyed his surroundings before allowing his tense shoulders to sag in relief. The same dream… again and again, ever since he could remember. Flames and screaming. It didn’t bother him as much as it used to, but somehow the recent version was longer than before, this time he was allowed to see his body returning to normal.

The thoughts escaped the man as soon as it came, as he realised too late where they were: Rome. It’s been so long since he heard so many different voices about; men and women conversing as children squealed and screamed – it’s a wonder he didn’t notice everything around him, although somewhere in his mind he wasn’t all that surprised. Why should he be aware of such a bustling city if he was never to experience it as a free man?

A child spotted him and rudely pointed, their mother hit them before scowling at the dark man. He could care less, he wasn’t here for them. His smug smirk did not go unnoticed, but the mother could do nothing else as the carriage once again started to move forward, towards the Colosseum.

… … …

He didn’t know what to expect, maybe something that didn’t resemble his cell at the old school – but here he stood in the middle of his brick and stone cell, a single bed staring him down and hundreds of others doing the same. Or so he hoped. The dark man turned to sit on his bed, catching the eye of someone passing by, and waited for further instruction.

Not once since he arrived at the new school, _Ludus Magnus_ it was called, did anyone ask for his name, unlike the innocent children at the old school who just seemed so eager to learn the name of a prisoner of war. But even then, no one would get an answer out of him – he had no name, or at least none that he was aware of. His trainer was the one who smote him with his name, a grimace and cruel laugh following his teasing – but he embraced his new name, his only name.

“You there.”

The man lifted his head to find a guard at his door, a neutral expression plastered on his face as he regarded the new Gladiator calmly.

“It’s time to eat _._ ”

The man only nodded in acknowledgment and stood up to follow the guard. The two walked through the winding passages until they reached the meal room, others already seated and quietly conversing as slave women worked around them. In another corner he spotted others shackled and observed by guards; _novicius,_ the new Gladiators who would soon realise the life of one wasn’t as glamourous as everyone thought.

A few eyes shifted over to him as sat down and dug into the food as well. He didn’t speak nor return any of their gazes, instead he focused solely on chewing and swallowing. He only recently proved himself worthy to fight for the people of the public, his trainers having to pull him out of his first public fight for the sake of his opponent. He might have been dubbed as fresh meat, but his experience on the battlefield could not take away his ability to slaughter five men with just a swift strike of his swords.

He was a monster, an angel of death.

_Mortem._

… … …

“Are you not nervous to fight?”

Mortem looked at the man who spoke to him, his facial tattoos mirroring Mortem’s and identifying him as the same level. But he wasn’t nervous.

“It’s not my first fight.”

“But you’re a _Tiro._ ”

“No, I am a soldier.”

And no other words were spoken, because when Mortem turned around the other man went quiet as he saw the ugly skin stitched across his shoulder blades as if wings have been torn from his back. Many refuse to ask about it, few attempting to stare at it for longer than a few seconds. And then there were the rare ones, who never feared to ask.

“Is that from your wars?”

The question was familiar, and a smile tugged at Mortem’s lips as he looked over to younger man also marred with tattoos.

“It’s from being born.”

The answer never satisfied anyone, because no one knew what it meant. Did they cut him as a babe? Was he not supposed to live? Did his mother mark him to never lose him? The truth is, not even Mortem could truthfully answer, because he never knew he had the scars until his fellow soldiers placed bets on his history. A history he didn’t know he had.

“If you show your scars, the Emperor would spare you.”

“What?”

The first man shrugged, back to preparing himself.

“No one knows why, but it’s how it is. The more gruesome your scars, the easier it would be to walk away alive. One of the others told me, but it’s not out of pity, it’s out of fascination.”

The conversation stopped there, doctors coming in to check the new Gladiators before they prepared themselves for their first event in front of the Emperor. Mortem barely focused on the hands trailing across his body, prodding at his back. He envisioned the Emperor, a man with a sick smile and cruel eyes, luring the scarred warriors only to have them die from pity.

… … …

 _Dimachaerus,_ a wielder of two swords – the Gladiator Mortem trained many hard years just to regain his freedom as a man. The heavy weight of the blades in his hands made his blood rush through his veins, his sight zeroed in on the thin slit his helmet allowed him to see through. Today he would prove himself worthy enough to rise the ranks, to earn the respect of Rome; his enemy.

He could care less what the Emperor thought of him or his scars, but the hushed whispers behind him made him wonder why everyone was so obsessed over such a cruel ruler who allowed men to brutally fight for sports; allowing captured men to fight for the entertainment for the very people they hate. It was sick.

A guard shouted something, a hand shoved him forward until he was faced with large wooden doors; one step closer to the arena. He could hear the screams of delight from the crowds, some shouting disapprovals. He saw a man limping back from his event, blood oozing from his arms, but a smile on his face. _Sick._

And then, the doors opened.

Blinding light pierced his eyes, but he strode on without flinching. There was laughter, mocking fingers and grins as they watched the newest of Gladiators dare to fight in the Colosseum. Mortem didn’t bother to entertain them more than he had to, he only had sights on the closed doors of his opponents. Of course they would make him want to fear the unknown.

During this time of wait, he allowed himself to scan the endless crowds until his eyes found the very balcony of the Emperor and his wife. He noticed the woman first, her hair braided down her shoulder in waves of fire and the golden laurel on her head reflecting just enough for Mortem to spot. Her posture was stiff, in a manner that she might have been threatened by everyone around her, but her one hand rested protectively around the Emperor’s wrist.

_The Emperor._

Another title could not suite the man better, with his regal face looming down. He too wore a golden laurel, but it was almost hidden amongst his hair, which shone just as bright. Mortem couldn’t understand at first how the man was a Roman, but he had little time to ponder on it more when the doors of his opponent suddenly opened.

A new fire sparked in his chest, not one of rage or disgust, but one which made him wanting to _prove_ how strong he was. _But why?_ Mortem spared a glance at the Emperor again, and found the man looking straight back at him.

Without further hesitation, Mortem held his swords steady and faced his opponent; a brute man armoured and brandishing a spear and shield. He moved slowly but deadly, the armour and shield won’t allow Mortem to end it quickly, and the spear would keep him at a distance. But he was quick.

He waited until the man was close enough, spear clasped in hand and shield ready to block any of Mortem’s strikes. He didn’t wait for anyone to him the signal, he simply charged forward and struck the man from the left and got blocked, his right sword reaching to strike him in his exposed side and was stopped by the handle of the spear.

The blocks almost had the power to knock Mortem back, but he was steady on his feet and fought back against the blows. He allowed himself to entertain the crowd for a while, or at least the Emperor, with his trivial and failing blows – each one striking hard enough to knock the man back once.

It was when Mortem suddenly got bored of the all charade that he suddenly twirled around the man, swords brandished low and cut open the back of his exposed knees. The man screamed in agony, and buckled in his place until he had no choice but to fall to the ground. Blood was steadily staining the stand below him, but the fallen gladiator only shook in pain and breathed deeply.

_Go down in honour._

The fight didn’t last long enough to entertain the crowds, but after Mortem stood tall and raised his swords in victory did he see a rather satisfying smirk on the Emperor’s face. _Yes, this will work. Gain his respect, gain my freedom._ But the frantic beating of his heart was not only from the adrenaline, and Mortem didn’t recognise the clench in his gut when the Emperor gave one last smile before Mortem was ushered back behind the walls.

… … …

“You are Mortem?”

The voice wasn’t one Mortem has heard before, used to the strange accents and languages in the school – but not one that sounded so regal. The man opened his eyes to find the Emperor at the door of his cell, a white tunic gracefully draped over him in a fashion Mortem could never understand.

The Gladiator rose from his bed and held himself upright, not allowing the Emperor to see any weakness.

“I am.”

The Emperor smiled and entered his room, only then did Mortem see the man’s eyes; a deep brown like wet mud. Other things came to his attention as well, such as the beginnings of greys peeking from his roots, and the soft wrinkles around his eyes. He was not a man of youth anymore, but neither was Mortem.

“So I heard that was your first, no I mean second public fight. What made you so good that you were allowed to come fight in my presence?”

“I struck down five men in a single strike, gutted another four and almost beheaded the main victor at my old school. My trainers did not want me to kill all their men, so they sent me away instead.”

The spark in the Emperor’s eyes had Mortem stand even taller, proud that his bloodlust brought joy to the ruler. _See how strong I am. Free me._

“May I ask to see your back? Your scars are very interesting.”

Not wanting to face the consequences of refusing, Mortem turned and allowed the man’s hands to trail over his back. His touch was warm and firm, hands framing the ugly flesh until Mortem heard a hum and looked back to find the Emperor almost sad at seeing the scars.

“It looks painful.”

“Little hurts me these days.”

The answer humoured the man, as he huffed and stepped back again.

“It was interesting meeting you Mortem, maybe one day we could share the arena.”

And the man left Mortem with a frantic heart and muddled thoughts.

… … …

It took Mortem two years to become one of the strongest Gladiators in Rome. His trainers were impressed and his fellow Gladiators jealous. There was only the one brute from the lands of Africa who seemed delighted in Mortem’s rise, once proclaiming he would have loved to fight the man one day. But one can’t beat swords with fists.

Mortem has gathered enough money to buy himself an estate, own slaves and perhaps take a wife – but found no pleasures in such things and kept the money aside only to indulge in buying small presents for when the Emperor comes to visit him in his cell.

He didn’t understand the man’s reasoning for coming, but he heard that Emperor Iohannes was a strange man who found delight in speaking with the Gladiators, something his wife often protested against. She was not a cruel woman, but cautious of her husband’s foolish actions. Mortem also came to understand the woman was not from Rome itself, but far north which explained much of her hair and name; Queen Sigrun.

Mortem has only met her twice, and each time she was withdrawn and watched him with such pain that he made a rule to never speak to her again, yet he could never find himself to stop feeling elated whenever the Emperor came to his cells and spoke to him. It was about his recent fights, how impressed he was and even questioning him about his past life. The latter of which Mortem refused to acknowledge.

It was during one those conversations which Emperor Iohannes said he arranged a date for the two of them to entertain the public together, a mock fight in which Mortem would _have_ to lose to the Emperor, but he couldn’t find himself to care.

And today was the day. Mortem was dressed and ready to go, unfamiliar and dull swords in his hands (not that the crowds would know the difference) and Emperor Iohannes himself said he was to be armed with a shield and sword, both battle ready and able to harm Mortem in any way.

The gates opened, and the sight of the arena never seized to make Mortem shiver in excitement. He walked out and was greeted with loud cheering, men and women alike yelling to seek the Gladiator’s attention; but his sights were fixed on the doors which revealed Emperor Iohannes.

He wore armour fit for a king, gold and sturdy – even his weapons had the rare metal to them. He didn’t think he would look forward to this day, the day he would be able to have the Emperor Iohannes _feel_ his strength.

The fight began.

Mortem charged forward as always, struck the shield and swiftly dodged the sword coming for his bicep. He didn’t waste time and twirled around Emperor Iohannes to reach his back, but the man was faster and nothing left his sights. He twirled almost just as quickly as Mortem, sword striking out and nicking Mortem’s hip.

“I had hoped you saw me as a challenge Mortem.”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

With that Mortem went for another blow, sword knocking at the Emperor’s wrist, but unable to cause any bleeding damage. Emperor Iohannes laughed and held up his shield when Mortem came with another blow, both swords aiming for his armpit. The Emperor pushed against the weak weapons and almost had Mortem tumbling. He _had_ seen the Emperor Iohannes as nothing but a pampered king, but it was clear that the man had strength to him. And the things it did to Mortem’s body was almost evil.

Emperor Iohannes aimed straight at Mortem’s throat, but the Gladiator caught the golden weapon between his swords just fast enough to avoid fatality. He saw the fire in the Emperor Iohannes’s eyes, the satisfaction and delight to see truly how remarkable Mortem was. It was addictive.

Mortem tried again to twirl around the Emperor Iohannes, and found himself right behind him, swords going to teasingly nip at Emperor Iohannes’s knees but Mortem almost missed the shield about to knock into him, and had to evade before he was knocked out. He retreated a few steps, the cheering crowds once again entering his ears once he managed to catch two breaths.

Emperor Iohannes’s shoulders were slightly heaving, indicating how the man defended himself against Mortem’s fast movements. Mortem licked his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat and went for the final blow. He knew he had to lose to the Emperor, but no one said he would have to act like a weakling. He would lose with everything he had.

He struck again and again, each time blocked and pushed away. Emperor Iohannes’s strikes were few but painful, the weapon already having thin trails of blood on Mortem’s body, the wounds stinging with sweat pouring into them. But the Gladiator was strong and ignored the pain, he used it instead to fuel his desire to fight.

He almost had Emperor Iohannes once, the tip of his dull blade having pinched the back of Emperor Iohannes’s knee just enough to have the man drop to it. The crowd gasped and cheered, and just when it seemed that Mortem couldn’t go against his victorious instincts, did Emperor Iohannes’s sword suddenly lash out and sliced up Mortem’s thigh.

The Gladiator bit his lip until it bled, his leg quivering in pain as he realised how deep the cut was. It didn’t bleed at first, pink muscle the only visible thing until the thick red liquid slowly started to drip out. Mortem knew when it was his cue to stop, and was scared of the state of his wound.

So with an honourable bow of his head, he dropped his swords and held his hands out in surrender. The crowds cheered at the Emperor Iohannes’s victory, and the man himself rose again to place a firm hand on Mortem’s shoulder.

“Well done Mortem, I must say… your strength is incredibly refreshing.”

It was then when Mortem realised after two years that he lusted after the Emperor. Two years of nerve-wrecking thoughts, and all Mortem could do was dumbly nod as he willed his body to suppress his arousal.

_Make me a free man._

… … …

The wound needed thorough medical attention, and Mortem was told he was only to train until the wound healed properly. He was also told that once his wound was nothing but a scar, that the Emperor Iohannes was organising an event large enough to invite royalty from other countries. Rumours of the Pharaoh attending was also high, and a visit from Emperor Iohannes confirmed the notion. 

Mortem was invited to the palace, where Emperor Iohannes and he strolled through the extensive gardens. It almost sickened Mortem to be alone with the man, his newfound lust driving him insane as he realised the crime his thoughts were. If the Emperor was just a normal man, then Mortem could lay with him as he wished; but to have a Gladiator lay with the Emperor himself? Blasphemy.

“Are you excited about the event?”

“What would make it so special?”

Emperor Iohannes had a gleam to his eyes, one of mischief.

“I get to show you off. Everyone would be so jealous to find I have someone like you to be mine.”

The words did sin to Mortem’s body once again, his cock agreeing to words more than they should. Mortem turned his head away in embarrassment.

“I didn’t realise I was this…”

A firm hand on his shoulder, trailing down to find the scars through his shirt which Emperor Iohannes has memorised too well by now.

“You are incredible Mortem… such a strange name, even after all these years…”

“I don’t know much from my past only that I belonged to a woman who lost me. I joined the war in order to survive, but as you know – your men captured me and thought I had information, my failure brought me here.”

“To me.”

And the words meant nothing to Emperor Iohannes, Mortem knew this. The touches and smiles were that of brothers, but deep in the night they became something more to Mortem, when he lay on his rotten bed and indulged himself in a fantasy he would never have. Emperor Iohannes would never be his, but he would be his friend.

“Husband.”

The pair found Queen Sigrun behind them, her eyes nervously flicking over to Mortem before settling on her husband again.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but the captain came to speak to you.”

Emperor Iohannes bid farewell to Mortem before leaving. The Gladiator was left alone with the Queen, tension between the two thick enough to strangle a lion.

“I wish you good luck on your events Gladiator… It would be a shame to see a strong man such as you fall.”

Those were the last words of encouragement Mortem received before the event took place a week later.

… … …

Mortem didn’t know how it could be, but the stands just seemed all the more impossibly fuller than ever before. His eyes found Emperor Iohannes on his balcony, wife next to him with her threatened expression, and the Pharaoh herself as well. She had the bronze skin Mortem has seen so many times, but never covered in so many expensive oils. He spotted a symbol underneath her eye, the religion lost to him, but he understood the importance.

What really struck Mortem was the knowing smile on the woman’s face, more intense than anything he has ever seen. Her gaze was sharp and she nodded at the confused Gladiator.

The doors were closed as always, and Mortem has been warned that he had a wicked surprise waiting for him; he didn’t think it would almost cost him his life.

Sand suddenly disappeared as trap doors fell back to reveal two large tigers appearing from underground, thick and heavy chains keeping them _just_ out of reach. One step to either side and Mortem was sure to lose an arm. The shock of having to fight such a beast for the first time didn’t escape the crowd, gasping as a tiger’s claws managed to cut into Mortem’s forearm – just enough to sting.

The gladiator had no idea how to approach this new enemy, and had no idea if he was _supposed_ to kill the beasts, his questions were answered soon enough when he heard the neighing of horses followed by harsh yelling.

Looking away from the beasts, Mortem was faced with a golden chariot hosting a rider and an archer travelling at incredible speed around the arena. It scared Mortem deep in his core, his muscles tensing to a point where he was scared he couldn’t move. He dared to look up at Emperor Iohannes, and found the man staring down proudly at him.

_He could do this._

Allowing himself to relax just enough to follow the movements of the chariot, Mortem was quick enough to dodge the first arrow and was punished with another claw nicking at his skin. He only had a small space to move in, and the only way to win was to slay one of the beast and then go after the archer – but that would be too easy… unless this was the easiest it was going to be for the day.

Not wanting to appear useless, Mortem turned to the tiger behind him and charged at the beast, the archer released another arrow – but the tiger took the hit for him and let out an inhumane sound which had Mortem pause and apologise to the beast. He did not train for such fights, because he saw no glory in them – but he had to do this to survive the relentless arrows firing at him.

The tiger, in rage, snapped at Mortem – leaving his mark and was struck again by an arrow when Mortem heard the release of the bowstring. The tiger was already immobilised, and in order to spare the beast, Mortem made quick use of his blades to end his suffering, taking an arrow to his own shoulder while wrestling with the beast.

The crowd loved it, cheering and screaming as the _dimachaerus_ fought enemies he was unfamiliar with. He managed to spot the royalty in their balcony, all with stern expressions except for Emperor Iohannes who laughed in glee at Mortem’s first victory. Another arrow to his leg had Mortem once again focus on the pest in the arena.

The other beast was no threat now, so Mortem fought through the pain and carefully dodged flying arrows as he made his way closer to the edge of the arena. The chariot was coming at him, the archer having two arrows ready and Mortem knew he was going to have to suffer to gain this ultimate victory.

Standing tall, he turned around and slowly started running towards the chariot. The crowds cheered and jeered alike, unsure of his actions. The gladiator ignored them, eyes focused on the arrows which release as soon as he was two strides away from the chariot. One missed and the other embedded in his shoulder from the front. Snarling, Mortem held his swords high and jumped at the archer, who was unable to flinch away as the swords embedded themselves into his wrists – cutting deep enough to slice tendons and have the man fall out in pain.

It should have been the end, but the other fighter suddenly took a spear which Mortem failed to notice was attached to the chariot. The horses turned sharply and came back again – spear ready to end Mortem.

Mortem was in pain, nerves on fire as he was ready to just be treated already and sleep until his wounds healed. This was not a challenge he wanted, but if it was the one offered to him then he will show them why he even feared himself.

The chariot closed in quickly, and Mortem was ready. He stood still, focused on the speed on the horses. They were just about to trample him, and the spear about to go through him when Mortem sidestepped to the other side, grabbed onto the end of the chariot and flung himself inside.

The other man was barely able to react when Mortem crossed his swords around the man’s neck and in a swift and powerful movement had the man’s head tumble forward and trampled by the horses. Blood sprayed over the gladiator, but he paid no mind to it as he grabbed the reins and reared the horses to a stop to avoid the still hungry tiger lurking in the arena.

The crowd was loud, their cheering digging into Mortem’s skull. He managed to smile and raise a sword as victory, turning to face the royalty and saluted Emperor Iohannes who laughed in delight. The Pharaoh politely clapped, her eyes searching deep into Mortem. Queen Sigrun on the other hand was tense, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth.

He had no idea what to make of such a reaction, but barely had time to think more of it when his vision faded into nothing.

… … …

“The arrows were poisoned.”

Were the first words Mortem came to when he blearily opened his eyes. He was in a hospital room, the Queen the only other presence. She stood next to him, eyes rimmed with red. _Crying._ The gladiator was quiet as he assessed the queen, unable to think of a reaction.

“Is that allowed?”

“Someone wanted you dead, but I see now such a feat is almost impossible.”

Mortem only huffed and hissed in pain when he tried to stretch.

“The scars on your back-”

“I don’t know what they are.”

Queen Sigrun bit her lip and he saw tears forming in her eyes again. She suddenly stepped forward and embraced the gladiator with passion.

“I told you, I hate to see a brother fall.”

Mortem only stiffly returned the hug as the woman cried on his shoulder, unable to understand her. But deep down, his soul yearned for her to stay forever.

… … …

It took time for Mortem to heal, but overall the large event was a success and the Pharaoh herself even came to congratulate Mortem – promising to see all of his battles until the end. The words were ominous, but he allowed it.

Emperor Iohannes never came back to him, giving excuses to avoid the gladiator and even physically pushing the man away when he tried to understand what he did wrong. It didn’t take long though, a guard fetching him and informing him that Emperor Iohannes wanted to personally see Mortem.

The gladiator felt sick, uncertainty pooled in his gut as he tried to understand what he did wrong. He didn’t want the man to hate him, his Emperor…

Mortem found him in his room, pacing around with fury on his face. He announced his presence with a clear of the throat, and Emperor Iohannes looked up. He didn’t hide in fury, in fact, he only appeared more furious.

“Why did you deceive me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Two years of my support and companionship, and you turn around and deceive me in such a way…”

Mortem had no idea what the man was talking about, but he could feel the relationship they had starting to crumple away.

“Emperor Iohannes-”

“I could see it in your eyes! Your lust!”

Mortem froze, his sins coming back to fight him. _My lust… my freedom._

“I… If it offended you-”

“But was it really for _me?_ ”

“Emperor Iohannes-”

“Or was it for my _wife_?”

This had Mortem frowning, trying to understand the logic. _Queen Sigrun?_

“I don’t understand-”

“I saw you, your fire and passion, I could see the strength in your body. I hoped you fought for _me_ all those years Mortem… I thought it was for _me._ ”

The man was close, close enough to have their bodies within reach. Mortem wanted to defend himself, wanted to tell the Emperor his lustful nights thinking of him as they sexed the night away. But the words were trapped, his world was falling apart.

And it was a mistake, because Emperor Iohannes screamed in fury and yanked Mortem close enough that their noses touched – but it was the searing pain in his abdomen which had his blood run cold.

“J-Emperor Iohannes-”

“I heard she helped you _recover,_ that her touch was _satisfying._ ”

“No-”

“She plead the same way, but I refuse to listen-”

“-I wanted _you_.”

But it was too late, Emperor Iohannes was too late. The knife was deep, and in his attempt to rectify everything – Emperor Iohannes sliced his gut open. Mortem gasped and dropped to the floor, entrails leaking onto the marble stones and blood littering everything. He heard Emperor Iohannes moan and yell, he heard people running to the doors. Hands on him, but it was too late.

He wished to gain respect and freedom, and soon he wished to gain the body of a man he could never have.

It was too late.wn in honour.

taining the stand below him, but the man only shook with man and breathed deeply.

ords brandished low and cut


	2. RE: LATIONSHIP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yea I tried to write this with an adult audience in mind.  
> If any of the word usage is a bit crass or crude, I apologise but I wrote in the essence of the character in their time period and their mindsets.
> 
> That's all.

At first he didn’t understand what he saw, flesh torn apart revealing nothing but an open ribcage and a still heart. His organs didn’t shiver nor move from their place, although they should have – and he thought to himself that it was bad enough; the pain of having his flesh torn apart almost unbearable. His screams deafened him long ago, his vocal cords already broken to the point where he just screamed blood.

The pain should have stopped there, but he felt things _inside_ of him. He didn’t want to look, but he did.

 _Maggots._ Thousands of maggots squirming inside of him, slowly – so slowly - eating him until he was hollowed out and blood only bubbled down his chin and over the worms who greedily sucked the liquid up.

It should have stopped, but the maggots vomited everything back up until he once again tried to understand what he was seeing.

… … …

He didn’t wake up spluttering and heaving, as one would normally from a dream watching your own body being eaten again and again. No, instead his eyes simply opened and he took one deep breath and raised his hands in front of his face to ensure that right now he was not being tortured.

The click of a tongue next to him didn’t bother him that much either anymore, already used to the disapproving tittering of his friend. She shuffled closer to him, signalled by her clothes dragging across the floor from her side of the small room. She barely slept more than he did, and was it was usual for her to be there when he woke up like this.

She had tea in hand, ready for him to drink and fall back asleep, but he could see that this time she wanted to talk.

“Again?”

“Yes, I felt it more too.”

She simply nodded, casting a look at her sleeping child before turning back to him again.

“Are you well to work in the morning.”

“I have no other choice.”

“Yes you do-”

“It’s the only way to gain a lot of money you know this. The shopkeepers will see me as too old to learn by now, it’s alright Amira.”

She only huffed, but he could see the worry in her eyes. He knew his profession wasn’t the best one, but it has been a part of him since he was a small boy – having been sent by his father to keep his old friends company while receiving hefty coin in return. He was good at what he did… and he couldn’t have Amira work too with her new born; husband killed for a crime he never committed. She was alone and he promised to provide for her no matter what.

He could see Amira wanted to say more, but the baby cried and the woman shuffled away again to quiet her. He drank his tea slowly, and sighed as he tried to rest again. Hopefully the dream won’t come back.

 _…_ … …

It was never a glorious thing to have a man cum over you for the sake of a coin, but the deed was done and his heavy pocket made his heart feel just a little lighter. Amira and the babe would eat tonight, and maybe well. She never asked if he got something for himself, but she assumed he did before he returned home.

Of course he couldn’t tell her he only ate what he could beg for, wanting to spoil his kind friend more than himself. It wasn’t that hard of a task to do, his body was not well and he knew the bones were sickly looking – yet the men who took him did not complain, because all they simply had to do was close their eyes and indulge in a pleasure their wives would frown upon.

It was when he was in the marketplace, having paid for fresh bread, when he heard the news of newcomers into the city. It was not the people nor the guards who announced this, but the neighing of impatient horses with pale men on their backs.

He heard about them, many times, but never thought they would come _here._

Crusaders.

He should have cared that men with such hollow plans to take back what they believed theirs now resided in his city, but he couldn’t because he knew he would not get involved. Don’t look in their eyes, and don’t cross their paths. Apologise and grovel, drop to your hands and knees if you have to.

_Don’t let them get near you._

He spared a last glance at the beasts and their men before scurrying back to the place he called home.

 _…_ … …

It was just another normal day, everyone out and about while he lurked in the alleys where most of his clients knew where to find him. He didn’t join the women like him in their houses, scared to endanger them if the guards ever found him – but he was still welcome to visit them if his day was slow. Such as today.

Nobody came since the sun was up, and he saw that no one was about to come for a very long time, so instead he headed to the women for some company before maybe begging for some coin to feed Amira.

It was while he was walking when he felt hands yank him back behind a building, foreign words in his ears as rough hands pulled at his clothes. He understood the tone of their voices, it wasn’t lust nor possession, but mockery, and the cry torn from his lips was enough for him to understand that the men who grabbed him thought of him as a vile creature.

He couldn’t understand how they would be aware of such things, but it has been some time since the Crusaders came and it was possible they noticed him and his activities. He knew he could have fought back, but it wouldn’t benefit him in any way – he was weak, only strong enough to handle a grip on his hips without feeling the bruises the next day.

He was shoved into the ground and the fists pounded harshly into his skin, a sword was produced as well and retracing old scars on his back he wished he could forget about. It always happened for some reason, men attracted by the patches of rough skin on his shoulder blades – always wanting to see them bleed again and heal uglier than they were before.

He didn’t know how much time passed since the men grabbed him, but his muffled cries carried on even after they left him. He hurt, and he didn’t want to go home. Amira would yell at him, begging him to stop but he couldn’t… what else was there for him than to give his body for coin?

She once spoke of him starting a family, but how could he force a woman he didn’t love to bear his children? He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t pick himself up from when he fell as a boy. He was satisfied to die poor and used, only because he knew no better.

The sun was about to set, and he had to go home he knew he did – but something held him back.

It was when a hand gently touched at his aching back did he once again cry out in fear and pain. Twisting his body to face his attacker, he was met with another Crusader armed and ready for war. It was this which had the aching man cry again and pled in a tongue he knew the foreigner would not understand but did so for the sake of his life.

Pale grey eyes stared back at him in confusion, mouth opening to question the sobbing man but he was too late; in his hesitation to question him, did he force himself back onto shaking legs and run away as far as he could.

 _…_ … …

“You _met_ one of them?”

“He was… strange…”

“They are dangerous you know, I have never seen your back this bad before.”

“I know Amira, but… it was like he forgot about his sword.”

The woman was quiet, but the sadness in her eyes was enough.

“If he finds you again?”

“Maybe I will speak to him, if he understands.”

… … …

It was on the fourth day when he returned back to the streets, a new purpose leading his feet to the alleyway he wished he died in. It was strange for him to willingly seek out a man, but he was curious. The Crusader did not look like he wanted to cause harm, and he might be a fool to think such a ‘Holy Man’ would see him as anything other than the vile creature he is… but he could hope.

Of course he didn’t tell himself he really wanted to meet the man again, panic still set deep inside of him at the thought that the Crusader could kill him without anyone noticing his death until Amira comes looking for him… no, instead he told himself that he would do business as usual but just be aware of any passing Crusaders.

And he thought that perhaps someone out there has cursed him, because just when he found a client did he also find the Crusader. His client was angry when he was shoved away in an attempt to clear a path. The Crusader at first was blind to everything, but spotted the frantic man as he tried to get as far away as possible.

The Crusader was a highly trained man, and such came the end of the chase as he did not trip over a loose stone and almost bashed their head against an opposing wall. But his figure loomed and blocked the sun, casting dreadful shadows which had the running man feel fear once again.

“Leave me please!”

Jibril felt no shame as he pleaded, he was beyond such feelings. He cast his arms over his eyes and waited for forceful hands to start touching him. A hand enclosed around his wrist and he bit his lip hoping some sort of wrath of any God will save him – but he didn’t need it.

The solder replied in his foreign tongue, and although Jibril did not understand it, the concern in the soldier’s eyes surprised him. He yanked his arm away and struggled to his feet, where he tried to run away again.

The soldier called after him, but Jibril counted his blessings and ran home.

 _…_ … …

Amira said nothing as she stroked the old scars on Jibril’s back. Her babe was sleeping soundly, as was the whole city, yet the friends could find no comfort in sleep now.

“I ran into the Crusader again…”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing.”

She said nothing and continued to the dress the wounds she was previously tasked with, her eyes willing to find any distractions.

“I think you should humour him, make another friend.”

“You’re enough.”

“I won’t always be here Jibril.”

He sighed and looked back at her, at her beautiful face wrapped up carefully in order to hide her identity. A woman shunned from the city, yet sought at refuge in the house of a man whore.

“When you die, I’ll kill myself.”

She said nothing, but a knowing glint in her eye had his body trembling.

… … …

He didn’t plan on meeting the Crusader again, or at least not again in this situation. Jibril was bleeding and bruised, and he had to lean against a wall to withstand the ache in his back. He carefully thumbed the coin in his hand and watched in the shadows for what he was to buy.

He was simply on his way to get more food for Amira, but an old client quickly took advantage of him. Jibril wanted to cry and complain, but money was money.

He saw a stand with some fruit and was about to step out of the shadows when the Crusader with the pale grey eyes saw him. Sacred, Jibril tried to back away into the shadows but he was too late. Once again the man tripped as the foreigner loomed over him.

Jibril spat and cursed at the man, trying to ignore the fresh trickle of blood running down his crack. The Crusader only knelt down and said something, but Jibril didn’t understand. He tried backing away again, but the pain was deep and he bit his lip as he tried not to cringe away from it. The Crusader grabbed his hand, and inside he placed a few _golden coins._

Jibril’s heart stopped. He was asked to do many things in the past, but this… this could be the death of him. He frantically looked up to the Crusader, expecting to see the lust but he only found a caring smile.

Jibril opened his mouth to ask the foreign question of ‘why?’, but the Crusader appeared embarrassed at first before opening his mouth, pointing a finger at it and then using the same finger to point at the stall behind him. _Eat_ the gesture implied.

Jibril closed his eyes for a second too long in surprise, long enough for the man to have vanished yet not long enough for him to realise the man had that he had forgone his uniform, and stalked the marketplace in a hood.

A strange Holy Man indeed.

… … …

It happened again, Jibril was resting by a fountain when two golden coins was pressed into his palm. He was sore and thirsty, and wanted to sleep, but men kept finding him no matter where he went. The cold press of coin against his palm had him jump as he realised he had to suck another cock, but upon opening his eyes he only found the Crusader staring at him.

Jibril was ready to get down on his knees for the man, but he only stepped away and disappeared again.

… … …

It didn’t stop happening, every day when Jibril was battered and bruised the Crusader would magically appear and give him two golden coins. It was on the fifth day when he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed the Crusader and spat in his face.

“Take your fucking money back you goatfucker!”

The Crusader said nothing, only stared down at him in confusion before smiling.

He pressed another gold coin in Jibril’s hand, grabbed his chin and kissed him with a passion the whore never knew.

… … …

“Another gold coin?”

“Yes…”

“Jibril?”

“Mmmm…”

Amira only smiled at her friend, unsure of what to think as he sat the whole night rubbing his lips and smiling.

… … …

The next day Jibril went to his usual place to find the bodies of five men brutally gutted and scattered around. They were naked and had crude phalluses carved into their backsides. At first Jibril had no idea what to think, but when he found two golden coins hidden expertly in a groove in the wall, did he think of those pale grey eyes glistening in delight.

… … …

Jibril wanted to confront the man, but he had no ways of doing it. He didn’t know where he was, and they didn’t speak the same tongue.

As luck would have it, he did manage to find the man again – but he wasn’t alone. With him stood a tall and mighty man, he was almost a giant compared to everyone in the city. When the giant spoke his voice vibrated in Jibril’s chest, although he wasn’t enough close enough to hear what his Crusader was saying.

_His Crusader._

Jibril was about to turn around, but pale grey eyes locked him into place. The man had no idea what to do as the Crusader walked towards him. The man’s face was soft, and upon closer inspection did Jibril notice the small wrinkles around his eyes, and the soft silver in his hair. The man must be older than he appears, yet it wasn’t the oldest man Jibril had been in the company of.

Jibril was ready to turn heel and run, but the Crusader held out a hand. The movement confused him and had him still long enough for the man to take his hand in his own and softly squeeze it. The gesture was not an unfamiliar one, having seen it done before, but he never expected to do it himself.

The Crusader smiled gently and spoke again, a single word. At first Jibril had no idea what it meant, and the man realised this as he prodded his chest and repeated the word again, “John.”

 _John._ It was his name. Understanding Jibril repeated the action and his own name. The man seemed pleased and lifted Jibril’s hand to his lips before gently placing them against his knuckles. Blood rushed to his face and his chest ached with unfamiliar feelings.

The Crusader, John, let go of his hand before returning to the man he spoke before.

… … …

“He wants something from me, I know it. He gives me money, he kisses me, but he won’t fuck me.”

“That sounds like a decent husband, if only my man had money to offer.”

Jibril was in no mood for his friend’s antics, and threw a wooden spoon at her.

“This isn’t right! I can’t take his money like this! It’s wrong!”

“Then they don’t you seduce him? Or court him?”

Jibril lost his energy, and sighed into the pillow he bought for Amira with the first gold coin he got. She deserved some luxury.

“No… I can’t do that, I can’t make people love me…”

“Jibril-”

“I was born unloved, I was always unloved. Every time I loved someone they left me or betrayed me, I can’t do that. Not again Amira.”

And Jibril almost flinched at the ancient pity in Amira’s eyes, so strong he wondered sometimes if she was human like him.

… … …

Over the next few weeks Jibril and John would have various encounters. It was always in the dark alleyways, yet it had Jibril being in less pain as the days went by and the bodies piled up. He wanted to pity the women who lost their husbands, but he could feel no such thing as he knew somehow they were better without those vile creatures in their homes.

During these encounters Jibril would find himself cornered against a wall as John would softly kiss his fingers, and sometimes when Jibril was sure he was going to die, his lips. It confused him and made him feel things he only felt when alone under the moonlight. Hands never went to grab and grope at him, instead they stayed away until the end when a golden coin was passed on.

It was during their latest encounter when Jibril felt too guilty about the coin. They were again in the shadows and John was so close, yet Jibril made sure to use all the strength he had to block the man from coming further. He took a coin from his pocket, pointed at it before grabbing John’s crotch.

The Crusader yelped and blushed, and took a step back in shock. His hand protectively covered him as he stared accusingly at the golden coin. Jibril wasn’t sure if he did something wrong, so he tried again.

This time he tucked the coin away and settled on his knees. He beckoned John closer, who did so cautiously, before pointing at his crotch and opening his mouth. John did not appear pleased at the notion, and instead joined Jibril on the floor.

The closed the man’s mouth and gave a sad smile. He said something in his tongue, shook his head, repeated the words and then frowned. Jibril was on the verge of tears, he did not want the man’s money for nothing. He knows how to please a man in all the right ways, and yet here was taking it without giving anything in return. He was disgusting.

John leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then the other, his forehead, and lastly the corner of his mouth. He reached for his pocket, pulled out a coin and placed it on the floor between them. It confused Jibril, but he kept his gaze on the man for any sign of wanting to fuck.

It never came.

John only lifted a finger to his lips, tapped twice before tapping the coin. Vaguely understanding, Jibril briefly kissed the man. After pulling away, John contemplated something before shaking his eyes. He had a twinkle in his eye as he tapped his lips again. Jibril leaned forward to give another kiss, but when he wanted to pull away a hand at the nape of his neck held him in place.

At first he wanted to panic, but the hand was gentle and moved to his shoulder all the while still kissing. Jibril wanted to end it, but he could not. Silently they held still what felt like years, before John sighed and pulled away. He smiled, kissed Jibril’s hand and gave him the coin.

At least he could give something.

… … …

These innocent and confusing touches were all Jibril had to do for coin, and it truly only was that. Somehow the Crusader had scared everyone away until it was only them in the shadows softly kissing. It was enough, yet Jibril knew he could offer so much more.

When he was brave he took a hold of the other man’s cock, who would gently push him away and kiss his hands. It confused him, but he never stopped his attempts. John never got angry because of this, but it must have been one too many times because when Jibril tried again he was pushed away a bit too harshly.

Fearing the worst he began to lift his arms, but John reached for his cock and not for him. At first Jibril was sad to finally have to bend over for coin again, yet at the same time he felt a small victory in his chest at finally having to _earn_ the coin.

He watched as the man opened his pants and pulled out a flaccid cock. Silence followed as Jibril patiently waited for the man to get an erection, but as both stared at it nothing happened. He followed his instincts and reached for it, slowly stroking it to life – yet nothing happened.

Confusion clouded his mind. Without a thought he dropped to his knees and placed the man inside of his mouth in ways which would have the wealthiest of men throw riches at him, and indeed it had John twitch and tremble but the cock in his mouth remained soft.

Jibril separated himself and felt humiliated, insulted. Blood pumped to his face in anger and he was ready to yell at the man, but John simply tucked himself away and tapped at his lips. It was a strange thing to do, but Jibril finally understood.

He softly kissed the man and apologised, but John only pulled him close and hugged him. It was in the warm embrace of the Crusader when the whore came to a sudden and frightening realisation.

… … …

“Amira-”

“I think you should tell him, the man clearly likes you and would be pleased to hear you do too.”

“What if he rejects me?”

“Then cut off his balls.”

The woman was blunt, and it shocked Jibril until he found himself laughing at the sight of a confused John as he tried to understand why he was lacking such precious organs. But the fear still lingered, so he held onto his dirty little secret while John would kiss and hold him with more satisfaction than any man who has ever fucked him.

Sometimes when John was hidden in his hood he would accompany Jibril around the marketplace. He would buy fresh fruit and they would sit in the sun and eat together as they enjoyed each other’s silent company.

It was on one such event when John suddenly stopped eating and gave a grim look to Jibril. His eyes were dark and glistening. Jibril wanted to ask what was wrong, but he would be unable to understand. Instead he took a hold of the other man’s face and gently kissed him in reassurance.

When the kiss ended did John give him a piece of paper. It was folded in two, and when opened revealed words in his tongue – yet it was useless to Jibril. He pointed to the page and shook his head, trying to convey his lack of understanding.

The silent words reached John and he only looked grimmer. Tears began to silently trail down his cheeks, and Jibril was hopeless. He tucked away the note and pulled John into his arms. There the man gave silent and violent sobs until the sun began to set.

He pulled away and gave Jibril a kiss. It was soft yet passionate, tasting of salt and a farewell.

Why did it taste like a farewell?

… … …

“He gave me a letter.”

Amira looked surprised and took the letter in question to inspect it. Neither of them could properly read, but she knew more than he did. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she tried to decipher the words, but she gave up with a sigh and a shake of her head.

“I will take this to scholars tomorrow, perhaps a kind soul will be able to translate this for us.”

He didn’t know if he wanted that to happen.

… … …

John did not appear the next day, nor the day thereafter. Two more days passed without John or a single Crusader in sight. He began to worry, his heart still holding his precious secret he had to tell John.

It was that night when Jibril arrived home to find Amira bearing the ill news:

“He is not coming back my friend. He is off to fight in the war.”

… … …

It’s been months or years, he couldn’t tell. He resumed his old job when John’s coin ran out; Amira’s daughter the only indication of time these days. The little girl was already running around with glee and Jibril knew he needed a lot more coin if she was ever going to be growing up properly.

So he went about his day as usual, but his heart still ached after the one man he truly loved. He could still feel his lips and hear his soft sighs… but the thought of John actually dead, it hurt.

The Crusaders passed by again, but very few, and when no one came to visit him in the middle of the night he knew the truth. _He was alone once again._

And the truth struck again when he returned home to find the wailing of a child and the screams of a woman. Jibril did not hesitate to find the source, near the end of the small house was a stranger with a sword.

Amira was slowly dying, her gut slit open and the sword already pointing to her throat, so the man threw himself at the stranger trying to save what little family he had left. Jibril was not trained in any way and was still a weak man, so it was only after a few seconds of struggling that the word reached up and slit his own throat in return.

The broken man died unable to protect the ones he truly loved. He thought he saw the Crusade’s mark on the stranger, and tried to understand what they did to offend the attacker. His last sight was that of the stranger’s hood falling off, revealing long blonde hair held up.

He thought he saw breasts and a blue eyes, perhaps tears.

But the thoughts didn’t last very long, as Jibril was soon released into death.


	3. RE: SPECT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm trying to make this weekly but I started a new online course and I'm failing at life

Drowning. No other word could explain what was happening to him, his mouth was forced open by claws and water kept pouring into his body as he screamed for release. The claws would dig deep into his cheeks and eyes until both were punctured and bleeding.

The water was thick as well, moving like a snake past his lips and into his lungs and belly. It got thicker and thicker, the taste started to change as well when more claws embed themselves into his skin – just slowly pushing in until he was drinking in pools of his own blood,

It was putrid, and the blood was mixed with more liquids; piss and vomit and sweat. He had to keep swallowing until he couldn’t anymore, his lungs were about to burst but some sick and twisted force kept him _alive._

And then suddenly his mouth was clamped shut, the liquid caressing his bleeding skin like a lover. The claws on his face never left, instead they stayed until the liquids started to boil inside of him, the rancid smell of blood still filtering around him.

He should have died then surely, filled with his own boiling bodily liquids to the brink of explosion – but the claws forced his mouth open again and millions of mouth latched onto him and sucked the fluids out. Out and out until he was left with nothing but the acids in his stomach. The mouths moans in delight at his taste, and the blood disappeared.

But the water came back to enter his body.

… … …

He wasn’t sure if he woke up because of the familiar dream, or because there was hot breath on his neck. At first he didn’t mind the strange welcome of someone in his bed, figuring that he must have accidentally escorted one of the prostitutes onto the ship – but something was wrong; where soft and supple breasts were to be pressed against his side was instead the firm chest of another sex. That was when he jumped from his bed and watched the offender follow suite.

He didn’t give time for the stranger to recover, quickly setting to work and knocking him unconscious before he had a fighting chance, all the while trying to understand why there was a strange man in his bed. It was still dark outside and the gentle rocking of the ship had dread pool in his stomach, they weren’t docked. He kidnapped someone.

Giving one last glance at the stranger, he exited his chambers and locked the door behind him. Some of the crew was still on deck, perhaps it wasn’t as late as he thought. His First Mate was smiling widely at him with mischievous eyes.

“So ye finally found him?”

“Who _is_ he!?”

The First Mate’s smile grew wider, and before the captain could unleash his fury the shortest of the crew huffed up to him and grumbled all the way.

“The boy is royalty! Ye tried getting the duchess!”

Memories did not flood in suddenly, but recollections of entering a noble party as a joke soon came back. He knows he got dunk, as he always does, and he knows he had the _brilliant_ idea of kidnapping the Duchess Andrea as a prank… but he doesn’t remember all that well of how he managed to get a boy onto his ship and into his chamber.

No one was screaming yet and he hoped he hasn’t hurt the Duke all that much, so he turned to his First Mate again in embarrassment.

“Hamia, go check on the boy and take him down to the cells.”

“What’re we going to do with him then?”

“It’s too late to give him back now.”

… … …

When the boy’s unconscious body was dragged down to the cells, that was when the captain got a better look at him; he was young, much younger than any of the crew, and he had the face of a proper upper class man. The boy’s hair was long as well, pulled back into a low ponytail behind his head with a blue satin ribbon.

Hamia only teased him when she found the captain staring so intensely at the stranger, but he could barely defend himself. It was easy to understand now how he confused the siblings, because the boy was just as pretty as he could be called handsome. A few years of work on his hands and the boy would steal the hearts away of men and women alike.

“So Captain, are ye going to wait for him to wake up?”

He nodded mutely at his First Mate, still in deep thought. She only laughed and left the man to ponder by himself.

She knew when to leave him alone, having known him for many years now and only serving under due to keeping her own profile low to not be recaptured by her people; but she was just as fearsome a pirate as he was, if not more so – even if all of her hair has by now turned grey.

The Captain did try and stay awake for when the boy comes to, but the small headache of too much wine forced him to close his eyes and take deep steadying breathes, which in turn lulled him back to sleep in hopes of for once dreaming of the sea.

… … …

“Hello? Hello!”

The Captain grumpily opened up one eye, glaring at the Duke in turn when he was rudely woken from his sleep – of course he should be thankful as well that the torment finally stopped too. Unfolding his arms and forcing his stiff back up, the Captain kept his face neutral as he regarded the Duke. If his carefree attitude didn’t alert the boy, then at least the war of scars on his face would warn the boy he was dealing with someone dangerous. The boy didn’t appear scared, but the lack of fire in his eyes betrayed anything his body tried to portray.

“Hello then, you’re awake. Please care to enlighten-”

“Ye don’t speak to a Captain like that, don’t you know to respect ye elders?”

The swell of blood on the Duke’s cheeks brought more satisfaction to the Captain than he thought he would have, wanting to tease the boy until he looked like a boiled lobster.

“Well, um, pardon me then. Who are you then… sir?”

The Captain extended his legs in front of him, smiling crudely all the way as he watched the Duke waiting anxiously for the answer, although not happily.

“How much do ye know of pirates?”

“Enough.”

“Know of any Dread Pirates?”

At this the Duke stilled, clearly understanding he was in the presence of someone feared.

“Welcome abroad the _Ángel Caído,_ and ye may call me Captain Segador.”

… … …

It has been two days since the Duke came abroad, Segador having found out the boy going by the name of Johnathan, to which he blushingly stated that Nate was enough to call him too. They fed him, but few went down to speak to him as well rather tending to their duties like the loyal seadogs they were.

And it was during another long and hot day that Captain Segador was about to throw his map into the ocean and just sail until the edge of the world, but that very same thought process is what led him to kidnapping a Duke.

They were faced with the same problem as with the past few weeks; they were lost. Their navigator died in a very tragic accident involving a bucket and a whale – and no one else had the skills to lead them around. First Mate Hamia tried to guide them, but her limited eyesight could only offer them that much.

It was after the Captain decided to not throw away the last thing they had to stew in his fury below deck, scared of breaking his precious items in his chambers. He paced relentlessly, his black coat twirling behind him with each quick spin to thread onto the same path.

He must have been too worried to notice Johnathan – Nate – listening in on his mumblings, because the boy spoke so suddenly that Segador grabbed onto his dual pistols, not drawing them, and whirled around to glare at the youth.

“What ye say?”

“Um, I heard that you were lost again… is the map the problem?”

Segador wasn’t sure if he wanted to trust the boy with anything, but did so anyway. He let go of his pistols and leaned in close to the barriers, ensuring that his presence made the boy as uncomfortable as possible.

“Not the map, the sun and stars.”

The words brought another blush to the boy’s face, but the fire in his eyes didn’t speak of embarrassment; he was excited.

“I could help! I have learned these things!”

The sudden excitement had Segador wanting to laugh, but he brushed it off and instead smiled mockingly at the Duke.

“And why should I believe ye?”

“Would it hurt for me to try?”

And it was with those words that Nate was cuffed on his ankles and forced next to Segador as he tried to pinpoint their position. The rest of the crew was restless to see what was going on, but kept to themselves out of fear for their Captain. Hamia lingered nearby as well, giving approving nods each time Nate identified something.

They wouldn’t know if the boy was a liar until they reached their destination. They kept the boy on deck next to Segador, who took over responsibility of the boy (although it was always his to begin with) and did everything together with Nate. They ate and slept together as a way of supervision, although Hamia found all the joy in it and would constantly tease the Captain.

Nate spoke little, but when he did it was cautious questions to break the silence between him and the Captain.

“You have a woman on your ship?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that… dangerous?”

The Captain cast a sidelong glance to Nate, not irritated but amused. Many who attacked them always grew confident upon seeing the First Mate, eager to claim a ship cursed for boarding her; but it was Hamia who ensured that no word of her existence ever spread, and it was Segador who ensured that no one underestimate the woman who saved his life more than he could count.

“I would say we’re cursed without _her_. She has saved this ship more times than we could count, we’re grateful to have her.”

Nate only nodded and didn’t speak again, but Segador noticed how the boy was much more intimated by the woman then, shoulders drawn tight as she teased him with delight.

… … …

It was during their course that something went terribly wrong. It wasn’t any of the crew nor Nate’s fault, but it was still unexpected as ever.

The day was as clear as it could be, Nate doing what he could and sitting around when he wasn’t required. The first person to spot the danger was the peg legged canon boy, who shrieked and hobbled across the deck screaming.

At first Captain Segador was deaf to the cries, used to the maniac’s antics – but when Hamia started to shout orders did the Captain realise it was no hoax. He didn’t have time to tell Nate to lay low or get someone to escort him somewhere safe, because just as Hamia turned to the Captain to warn of the danger did everyone come face to face with it.

It was terrifyingly beautiful with glittering silver scales and eyes so dark many thought the beast to have the stars inside of them – but it was when the beast opened its strong jaw revealing hundreds of teeth that the crew froze in fear of the beast spotting them.

Segador heard Nate whimpering behind him, and tuned to find the boy on the floor having pissed his pants. The Captain couldn’t find himself to be disgusted, himself having done so many times when he first ventured onto the vast oceans – but he was a better man now, a better pirate.

“Get the serpent!”

It was all orders needed, the ship not a stranger to such beasts, but a stranger to silver serpents. The biggest they ever had were the blue serpents who merely nipped at the boat in boredom before leaving with enough swords and bullets. But silver serpents; they won’t leave until the ship is no more.

Hamia took charge from there, drawing her own boarding blade and instructing others to do so too. The manic from before hurried below deck with three others, getting firepower ready to attack the sea snake.

It was eerie how the beast didn’t outright attack, instead staring everyone down as if deciding who would be the perfect meal. And it found them.

Segador shouted when the beast came right at him, moving at incredible speed. He had his dual pistols ready, but wasn’t quick enough when the beast didn’t go for _him –_ but for Nate. The boy screamed when fangs embed themselves in his leg and lifted him too fast for Segador to latch onto.

The crew wasn’t blind and noticed someone got snatched, so they made work and gathered rope and spare harpoons to keep the beast near for as long as possible. Hamia was still busy making sure the crew did their job, so Segador had no choice but battling the beast alone to save the Duke.

The beast thrashed against the ropes, which held strong, and it allowed the Captain to run onto the edge of the ship and leap onto the beast’s slippery body. He managed to trade his pistols for daggers, using them to climb the slender silver neck to reach Nate who was still trapped in the beast’s teeth.

The Duke was screaming as anyone would, his fists beating on the firm snout, and Segador only huffed in amusement as he climbed with newfound vigour. If the boy died on his hands, he would not be able to forgive himself – it was his fault the Duke was here.

He ignored the shouts of the crew, focusing on reaching the head and trying to not fall into the swirling waves beneath him. The daggers pierced easily through the scales, knowing full well the hardest parts were on the beast’s back.

Segador was halfway up its neck when it opened its mouth and screeched as a cannonball pounded into its neck. Nate was released at the same time and slipped from the beast’s mouth, slowly falling into the ocean’s depths. Whilst mid-air, Segador refused to think any further than _save him!_

He released his hold onto the daggers as swung himself into Nate’s direction, grabbing hold of the boy’s shirt and having their bodies harshly collide into the deck. The Captain held the boy tightly in his arms as the fool blubbered and cried, returning the embrace in his fear.

With the boy safe, Hamia gave the order to kill – and soon after bullets were shot into the beast’s eyes until it had no other choice but to retreat once the ropes allowed it to. The fight was not over, as waves threateningly rocked the ship, but Segador trusted his crew well enough to keep them steady as he held Nate close to him.

He felt the boy mumble against his chest, perhaps he was praying but the Captain was sure words of gratitude was flowing from his lips. The Captain only hugged the boy tighter as he tried to understand how he found himself in such a situation.

… … …

“Are ye well?”

Nate was in the Captain’s chambers, still trembling like a leaf and wrapped up in satin blankets. The boy hasn’t spoken since the serpent, which was two days ago, and no one could blame him. Silver serpents were as rare as diamonds, and many thought them to be myths – but the encounter left many shaken, and Hamia agreed to take over the ship while their temporary navigator recovered with the aid from Segador.

“Nate?”

The boy only stared at him, eyes red from crying.

“Thank you.”

The words were whispered, but it made Segador bloom from the inside. He has saved many people many times, no stranger to useless crewmates – but the awe in the boy’s eyes was something the Captain wasn’t used to, knowing full well not even the prostitutes bothered to fawn over his gruff and scarred face.

The Captain nodded in acknowledgment and turned his head to avoid eye-contact.

“It’s okay, ye were-”

But the pirate was cut off when Nate suddenly leapt forward and embraced his middle, head buried into his stomach.

“Hey now!”

The boy was mumbling again, the words muffled against his shirt but Segador couldn’t find himself to be angry at the boy. Instead he patted his hair – now slick with oil – and only reassured the youth. It scared the Captain how much he appreciated the youth’s gratitude.

… … …

Nate once implied that Hamia would be a curse onto the ship, but right now… it appeared that indeed the Duke himself was.

He continued to navigate them, the destination a port where the Captain wanted to trade some coin, but so far in the course of two weeks they have been attacked four times, five if you were to count one encounter concerning a sea turtle army.

First has been the epic tale of the Silver Serpent and how the ship _Ángel Caído_ defeated the beast… with no evidence.

Then a ghost of dwarf Vikings with murderous weapons attacked them, but everyone knew the myths of the ship and when Nate was carried away by five dwarves, did Segador have to swoop in and dismantle the ghosts before shoving the boy into this chambers for safe keeping.

Another was a rather ruthless pirate ship who thought they were smart enough to be able to sink the _Ángel Caído,_ but Segador didn’t gain his ship from adventure alone – his coin fortified his ship well. But the pirates _were_ smart enough to shoot at Nate who was trying to hide behind the mast. It was Segador who had no choice but to grab the Duke and take three bullets to the hip before once again shoving the two of them into his chambers.

The fourth was much less exciting and more so a stupid mistake. It was late at night and Nate thought himself dapper when a woman in the ocean begged for his help, if it wasn’t for Segador to see the damn boy about to follow a mermaid then he would be gone for good. But the Captain warned the crew and grabbed the boy before he could go after the woman, of course Hamia had her own piece of mind against the mermaid.

The fifth attack is a forbidden topic, everyone agreeing to never speak again of the sea turtles.

Segador thought himself to be tired of having to rescue the Duke like some sort of Damsel from foes, but each time the youth would hug the Captain and thank him with vigour. It came to a point where the Captain eagerly awaited the next attack.

He was selfish for thinking so, or maybe it was hope. Hamia teased him that she once heard Nate ask someone about how he kept his hair so clean, which was a task in itself since he refused to cut the black forest of curls.

Afterwards Segador refused to admit his skin felt hot when he offered to show Nate how to keep his hair clean, and the boy thanked him with childish glee.

The Great Captain Segador would die at the hands of the Duke Johnathan if he kept it up.

… … …

It was in the third week when Nate promised they were close to their destination, and it was then a sombre night with a cold and still ocean surrounding them. Segador was resting behind the wheel, trying to fill his heads with thoughts to cure his boredom when Nate joined him on deck – the boy ridded of his shackles after he was deemed useless against running away from dwarf ghosts.

The Duke stood next to the Captain and both were quiet, but not for long.

“My sister once told me I should fear pirates, she told me they were all ruthless killers who only cared about who has the most blood on their hands.”

“She ain’t wrong, but not all of us are that… bloodthirsty.”

“So what is your goal as a Captain?”

“Get coin.”

The answer was simple and boring, but true. Segador never did struggle as a child, but deep inside his heart yearned after the coin in a way he felt like he would do anything to get it. That was when he met his First Mate who introduced him to the world of piracy, and gladly helped him climb the ranks to Captain.

“Did you achieve it yet?”

“Yeah, I got four ships all loaded with coin - _Ángel Caído_ has enough to buy another five ships.”

Nate didn’t look impressed, but sad.

“So why don’t you settle down and get a wife and children? Find something more.”

At this the Captain grimaced, feeling his scars stretching across his skin.

“I’m not the image a wife would be proud of, imagine what the children would look like.”

Nate snorted at this, a soft smile on his face.

“But you got those scars during your adventures didn’t you? Don’t they show how brave you are? I would call women fools for not wanting to bear your children.”

Segador almost laughed at the boy’s bashfulness, but the embarrassment at the hidden compliment kept him quiet.

“It’s not just my face, my whole body too.”

“May I see?”

The question was innocent, but it struck Segador with fear. Only few has seen more than just his face, the prostitutes as well – usually having to take him fully clothed as he was… even then he usually wore a mask to not burden them more than already having to take his cock.

“Ye a bold one.”

“I am curious.”

Segador smirked at the boy and kept his hands firmly on the wheel.

“Maybe later.”

… … …

They did reach their destination in the end, and Nate was given applause and cheers for having them arrive safely. Hamia and the crew already disembarked the ship in search of trivial things the small trading post had to offer, loyalty in their bones would guide them back to the ship in time.

Hamia gave Segador a subtle wink when she saw the man drifting away from the group with Nate, he wasn’t oblivious to her encouraging this small bond the two of them formed. Segador remained suspicious of his friend, it is the first time she ever welcomed someone so eagerly onto the ship, yet her mysteries was just what made her all the more interesting.

Segador decided to treat Nate for his job well done, and took the two to a tavern. It wasn’t all that bad, compared to some places the pirate has seen, but he knew Nate would still find it unappealing. So instead he first asked around for an inn, and found that they had rooms available, so he paid for one and escorted the two of them to a simple room with a large bed.

“I would assume ye are tired of the waves, so have a nice bed on the land.”

Nate didn’t respond, but his face was till soft as a way of thanks.

Segador didn’t mind the boy and instead started to shed his clothing until he was in nothing but his trousers and low cut shirt, hair pulled back to hang low between his shoulder blades in an attempt to escape the heat. Nate’s eyes were on him the whole time, and they both managed to think of the same thing.

“Ye want to see?”

“If, if that is alright with you.”

And maybe it was, because he could claim it was a reward instead of him actually trusting the boy. So Segador slowly rid of his shirt and refused to look at Nate as his torso revealed various scars, tattoos and brands he gathered over the years.

His chest held three brands, and there were two more on his right wrist. Segador also knew that the tattoo of a crucifix in the centre of his chest was a strange sight, a small piece of his family he kept with him. And littered over his entire body was ugly scars of all shapes and sizes, various burn wounds on him as well from the times he was still learning to ways of pirate battles.

Nate was still quiet, but he sat down on the bed and appear to memorise every single imperfection.

“That is… very impressive.”

But Segador wasn’t satisfied, so he turned around and moved his hair to showcase two long and harsh scars on his shoulder blades, hidden slightly by tattoos around them – but they were still so easily spotted; his trademark.

“What, how did that happen?”

“I wish I could tell ye, or would ye like to hear the legend?”

“Yes please.”

Still turned around, Segador decided to amuse the youth a little longer.

“I didn’t earn my name for nothing, Segador is also known as the Reaper, and many of my enemies claimed that I made a deal with the devil to become his worker. The devil granted me wealth and power to defeat all enemies and never die from any attacks, in return I must gather souls to send to hell. One day I didn’t obey the devil so he punished me and gave me the appearance of a fallen angel, and abandoned me to my own mortal life – but somehow I still managed to keep my powers as the Reaper.”

“What a fantastic imagination people have.”

“What never heard my tales?”

Nate shook his head, once again a soft sad look on his face.

“I was raised to dismiss any thoughts of the ocean, it was horrible. I really love it, the waves and creatures… I would watch the dolphins swim at night when the moon was low. My sister… Andrea… always told me to stay as far as possible, she said only the dammed would risk falling off the edge into hell.”

Segador hummed and slowly fit his shirt on again.

“And what do you think? Am I dammed?”

“No, I would say you are an angel who saved me from my own hell…”

The room was tense and quiet, both men unsure of what their gazes meant exactly, the fire in their eyes and bellies – but it wasn’t strong enough to keep them there forever.

“Well then Seadog Nate! How about we celebrate your induction to the crew!”

… … …

It was a mistake to get Nate drunk, but the two men were enjoying the night away and Segador was too blind to see the official coats entering the tavern, and he was too blind to see when Nate stumbled drunkenly over to them and exposed the Captain.

It happened too fast for his drunk reflexes, and soon he was arrested for his lifetime offences and ordered to be executed as soon as possible. Of course this meant that because of his very worthy title, his execution got to be first thing in the morning.

It should have made him angry, to know he would die in such a pathetic way – yet it didn’t bother him all too much. After all these years of living in wealth and power, he could find no regrets dying the way he would.

But that didn’t stop him from spitting when he saw the youth in the crowds, groomed by the guards and forced to watch the Captain die. He spotted a smaller version of Nate, one with breasts and tears. _Duchess Andrea._ He has only ever seen her once, at the party so long ago, yet his soul burned with fury when he laid eyes down upon her. She’s the one who called the guards, the one to initiate the search. The one who wanted to take Nate away.

It was funny to think that all of this might have not happened if he just kidnapped that girl in his drunken state, yet here he is. One would ask where the crew was, why were they allowing this? A pact was made long away between The Captain and the First Mate.

_If I die because of my own crimes, you will not come after me. My crimes are not your crimes._

Segador barely felt the noose wrapped around his neck, instead he smiled time and even blew mocking kiss to Nate. He didn’t hate the boy, but anger still stirred in his belly.

You could look at it in any way you want, but Captain Segador died betrayed by none other than the hand of a pretty Duke.


	4. RE: INFORCE 0.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather long, so I decided to split it up. I was apparently having too much fun with this one.

The pain was focused and precise. He could feel every small nerve being severed, every single tissue being parted, and he could _feel_ his veins being neatly sliced into small ribbons. He wanted to look down, wanted to _see_ the pain but he knew what he will see;

Invisible threads cutting into his arms and legs, slowly, _slowly,_ zig-zagging into his many layers of skin until it gently peeled off and fluttered to the floor. It didn’t stop there, the threads continued; Zig. Zag. Zig. Zag. Nerve. Tissue. Vein. Peel. Flutter. Zig. Zag. Zig-

It got deeper, into his muscles, into his bones, into his organs. It cut higher and higher, his cock took the longest time, the threads enjoying to watch the appendage slowly peel back until resembled nothing but a sexless being. Yet his head remained, it always remained.

He didn’t scream, he didn’t cry, he was beyond that. He only shuddered and vomited when the layers of his body slowly rose up and reassembled onto his body, the threads screaming in pleasure.

_… … …_

He woke up silently, eyes burning and chest heaving. It wasn’t first time for this dream to occur, but it was the first time he heard the threads make a sound. They were always so silent, so sinister. He turned to his side only to see that the fire has gone out. Letting out an annoyed grunt, he lifted himself up and saw that his other two companions were still fast asleep.

The moon was high in the sky and too many stars judged him as he waddled over to a nearby bush and pulled out his cock out for a piss. He thought to himself that the sad excuse of a bush was probably pleased at the liquid he offered the thing, even if it smelled worse than the cigars James ­– _Jugador as the man liked to be called-_ smoked.

He scoffed to himself as he wondered why he surrounded himself with such buffoons, first a prostitute who begged him to take her in exchange for favours, and then a wanted gambler who had nothing to his name but his tricks. Granted, he himself didn’t want anything from either of them, except someone to watch his back.

Walking over to said gambler, he kicked the man awake before doing the same to the former prostitute. He wasn’t a gentleman nor a cowboy, if the girl wanted to travel with him then she better start getting used to it.

Both of his companions swore and groggily got up, the girl glaring daggers at him whilst the gambler only patted his pockets for a cigar. Not waiting for other two to finally get up, he walked over to the horses and started to prepare them. The night is still bitterly cold, but a nice trot won’t hurt either of them.

“Hurry up you mongrels.”

James – _Jugador he reminded himself –_ sighed and finally sat up, rubbing his scruffy moustache. The man needs to get rid of it unless he wanted to attract any more attention to the trio. It was bad enough they had a woman traveling with them, yet she didn’t slack them down as of yet.

Not waiting for his companions, he swiftly hoisted himself onto his steed and clicked his tongue to have the beast move forward. He never said he was a loyal companion.

… … …

The ride was quiet and he heard a slight gasp from behind him when the sun started to peak over the horizon. Looking back, he saw the girl looking at it with wonder.

“You never told me your name.”

She whipped her head to him and glared, hands tightening around the reins and legs instinctively pushing against her mare’s sides. The mare shot forward in command, but the girl refused to flail around and the men watched as she fought with the stubborn beast until the painted mare trotted anxiously back to them.

James – _he wasn’t going to correct himself anymore -_ snorted at her slightly dishevelled appearance, her dress not having been replaced in the week that the trio has been together, and only James tried to make it obvious that he wasn’t trying to look. She was a prostitute, she must know that she is appealing enough as it is.

The girl huffed and stuck her head up high in the hair. She levelled her so-called saviour with an evil eye and only hissed out a word in reply to his previous question.

“ _Azucar._ ”

The two men only blinked, James confused yet the leader of the trio only smirking at the humour. Of course she would go by that name, apparently they all had some sort of cute nickname.

“Well then _Azucar,_ you may call me _Le Blanco.”_

… … …

The trio didn’t speak much after that, except James who kept asking him if he had to call him _Le Blanco_ every single time, which the man finally submitted to and muttered out an annoyed ‘Just Blanc would do if you’re going to be such a pisser about it.’

Azucar didn’t speak much, but when she did it was in irritated Spanish and both men came to the conclusion that she won’t be speaking any more than just that.

They travelled to nowhere, simply trying to avoid potential bounty hunters and natives, yet they could only be so lucky. Blanc tensed as he spotted a lone native on horseback in their way and staring directly at them. He wanted to reach for his shotgun, but knew that it would only cause conflict.

They continued slowly towards the native only to find out it was a woman. She smiled gently at them and motioned them to approach her. He didn’t want to risk it, unsure if it was an ambush, yet her deep eyes lured him.

Upon approaching, both her and Blanc dismounted their horses and looked at each other. She smiled again and spoke in a soft, yet such wise voice.

“Fallen children.”

Blanc only blinked at the women, his back aching at the words. She smiling knowingly at him and he feared that she was much more than a simple native. There was no tepee, nor fire and her horse was bare of anything. Blanc wondered how she has survived this long without the help of anyone.

Before he could ask her as to why she stopped him, she took his hand in hers and held it steady, tracing the leather of his gloves.

“You’re almost there, the path is cruel but you’re almost there.”

The words were mystic yet filed with such grief and passion that Blanc felt like he has known this woman for so much longer, but it couldn’t be. She was young, and although he never knew his parents, it eliminated the probability of her being close to such a relation.

Without another word, she let go of his hand and smiled again. She nodded at James and Azucar, eyes lingering on both a second longer than it should have.

“Be safe on your journey.”

Blanc could only watch in confusion as the native woman galloped away into the desert, the warmth of her hand still embedded into his palm.

_You’re almost there._

… … ..

And almost like a miracle, not a day later did the trio spot a small town. The first thought was, _food,_ and then, _alcohol¸_ but it soon settled on finding some proper feed for his horse first. The poor thing has been through enough. They steadily entered the town and met a few suspicious looks, but Blanc was used to this. It didn’t help that his companions only added more to the scene.

They found a place to park their horses and dismounted, Azucar sliding off in relief, and looked around. The first thing they all spotted was the saloon, and whilst both men were happy enough to enter, Azucar only grimaced and crossed her arm in defiance.

Blanc turned to look at her, rolled his eyes, and threw her a small pouch of money.

“Get some clothes you whore.”

” _Gracias.”_ She mockingly spit out.

He would’ve hit her, but he’s sure such an act in this town would cost him more than just a simple berating. James had already entered the saloon, and was betting his beloved pistol on a game of cards. Blanc only rolled his eye, hoping the man could actually live up to his so-called reputation of _Jugador._

The bar had an open seat and he happily sat down and ordered the rotten smelling alcohol the town had to offer. The glass was handed to him, and he happily sighed as it burned his throat.

… … …

“Well this is a nice change of scenery.”

“It’s the fucking county jail.”

“I was being sarcastic, oh _le Blanco._ ”

The two men glared at each other, which only caused them both to flinch as their bruised faces slowly started to swell in pain. It was all James’ fault, he kept winning game after game, only for a drunk to point out that he was cheating and then-

“I never thought you were an outlaw, or a famous one at that.”

Blanc only grunted in annoyance. Of course while saving his companion, somebody must have noticed the similarity between the bounty posters and his face. Put two and two together, and the sheriff was quick enough to subdue them.

The two men shifted in discomfort as they tried to figure how what to do.

“Psst.”

Blanc looked over and saw Azucar, now in a dress which probably cost a fucking _fortune,_ wink at them with a smirk.

“ _Idiotas_ ~”

“Be a good whore and go fuck the sheriff to get us out of here.”

She glared and spat at them, throwing them a finger and then whispering words so obscene that Blanc was grateful James didn’t understand her views on them. Distant voices were heard and Azucar quickly scrambled away.

_Good for nothing whore, takes all my money yet she doesn’t even suck my cock._

Blanc stewed in his anger for a while until the voices became clear.

“Look, I understand that they don’t have the best reputations-”

“I can’t just let them _go-_ ”

“They’ll be working-”

“They’ll kill you-!”

The argument continued for a few more seconds until a silent agreement was made between the two unknown men. The sheriff appeared in front of the cell, he was short and mean, yet he had strength that even outmatched the outlaw. Behind him stood a handsomely rugged man, sweat clinging to his skin and mud stains on his pants.

Blanc couldn’t help but think the man looked too kind to be in this part of the country, his face was weathered yet his eyes were warm and soft.

The sheriff grunted and took out a ring of keys.

“Sean I still think you’re making a mistake.”

The man, Sean, only smiled warmly and laughed.

“I’m sure they will only bring luck onto my ladies.”

The sheriff grimaced and the cell opened. Neither James nor Blanc moved. Sean stepped forward tipped an imaginary hat.

“Well hello then, name’s Sean Murrey. I asked the sheriff for custody of the two of you, could really use the help.”

… … …

Never in all of his years did he think he would be stuck on a cow farm _helping_ others for something that doesn’t benefit him… no, it does benefit him, his whereabouts would be kept quiet and the town swore that no one would utter a word about the outlaw being there. It appeared that they respected the farmer, Sean.

Sean himself was polite and explained to the two men that he was practically all alone and his last workers found better jobs working on the railways, and now he was worn out thin from all the work. Blanc wished he could relate, but he hasn’t worked a damn day in his whole life. He was good at what he did, and the most work he has done so far was agree to a threesome with two busty blondes. What an eventful night that was.

The thoughts of prostitutes made him remember Azucar who ran away with his money. Angry again, he slouched in his saddle alongside James as Sean continued to talk. They were allowed to take their horses with, as the farm was some distance away from the town’s central area.

The only farms Blanc has seen so far, were the few he raided in the dead of night, although he was sure that Sean wouldn’t be all too happy to hear about that. He ignored the farmer and looked ahead to see a large plot of land enclosed with a rickety fence. The farm house stood proud and impressive. Blanc was sure that the farm ran a few generations into Sean’s family.

The closer they got, the more Blanc realised the situation he got himself into. He was to help the farmer with his millions of cow in exchange for a few extra days of being alive. That didn’t seem fair, the least they could do was have him finish his whiskey.

Grumbling again the trio got closer, and Sean dismounted to open the gate and allowed his… workers, to enter. He told them to tie their horses near the barn, promising to have stables cleared out for them. Blanc heard a pig and a chicken, and sneered in disgust as the animals neared him.

He had a particular distaste for farm animals, preferring the wild creatures lurking the dessert.

“You can come in and have a meal and drink, just try and keep your voice down, my girl is still sleeping.”

The men entered the farm house, James and Blanc seating themselves at the table and taking a look around. Nothing was worth stealing, except perhaps the rifle hanging on the wall, but otherwise the house was barren of any worthy goods.

Sean handed them each a glass and produced a bottle of whiskey, saying something about how the bartender owned him one after some sort of incident. The men drank, and Sean excused himself to go wake up his daughter.

“So, we gonna kill him?”

“Can we eat first, besides, the whiskey’s good.”

Neither argued against that and settled again in silence. They heard a whine and whimper, and soon enough Sean returned with a girl attached to his leg. Her face was red and slightly sweaty, yet her hair was braided neatly behind her and she sported a few scrapes on her elbows.

“Angelique, greet the guests.”

She pouted and whined, yet when her eyes landed on the outlaw she sucked in a breath and started to cry. Feeling slightly insulted, Blanc stuck his tongue out to the girl, who in turn squealed and dug her face into her father’s leg. Glaring at his guest, Sean picked up the girl and reassured her.

“Angelique is a bit sick at the moment, I promise she never acts like this.”

The girl continued to cry, and with an uncomfortable smile Sean excused himself to put her back to bed. Blanc was left with a bitter taste in his mouth, seeing the girl brought forth a hatred he never knew he had for children.

“What? She murder your family?”

“Anything is possible these days.” Blanc muttered as he knocked back his whiskey. He wasn’t sober enough for this, hell he’s been sober for too long. He knew James was staring him down, and he was about to snap at the man when Sean appeared again.

“So, I’ve a room for the two of you, you won’t have to share house is big enough. Just promise not to kill me and my girl and everything in this house is yours as much as it’s mine.”

The man was trusting, and too kind. Blanc didn’t like it.

“You gonna hand us in?”

“I don’t do that.”

He raised an eyebrow at the farmer, finding only pure warmth staring back at him.

“I feel like I’ve got a life’s debt to pay, I like helping everyone in this forsaken country.”

“So what, we’re going to herd your cows?” James decided to speak up this time, swirling his hideous moustache. Sean nodded and took a seat with the outlaws.

“Not just that, recently the farm has been target recently, and I can barely sleep at night knowing someone can come in and just kill off my girl for some damn cows.”

“Can we kill them?”

Sean looked worried at the question, averting his eyes from the men.

“Just keep us safe.”

… … …

Neither James nor Blanc expected to suddenly wake up, after only two hours of resting in a real bed, to the sound of a muffled scream. The two men grabbed their weapons and exited their respectful rooms, unwilling to acknowledge each other in their strange act of unison as they ran towards to the sounds.

James stopped in his tracks and instead ran to the other end of the house, to perhaps check on the girl, whilst Blanc ungracefully barged into the farmer’s bedroom to find a woman on top of him. His first reaction was to cuss at the pair, but he stopped when he realised that Sean was instead fighting against the woman and her dress was too glamourous for a nightly visit.

“You whore.”

Azucar whipped around to face the outlaw and bared her teeth in anger. He rolled his eyes and stepped towards her before pulling her off the farmer by her hair. She clawed angrily at him while the farmer rolled out of bed with a crazy look in her eyes.

“You know her?” the farmer was in his right to be shocked, and Blanc wished he could answer with a negative. Instead he sighed, dropped the woman and kicked her harshly in her stomach.

“I thought the damn bitch went off with my money, guess she really was serious when offering to fuck me.”

The words brought a blush to the farmer’s face, something Blanc found amusing considering the man did father a child. Maybe he asked his wife to do it while he was asleep. Maybe the child was a miracle.

“The girls alrigh- oh, it’s _her_.” James stopped as suddenly as he ran to find Azucar growling at him too. He only winked and she gagged.

Blanc regretted meeting any of them.

… … …

He was unsure how the farmer managed to convince him to watch cows the whole day, but it was exactly what happened. One moment he was still trying to wake up, and the next moment he was outside in the blistering heat with a deadbeat gambler watching cows.

He never had a love for the blistering heat, which he supposed was ironic considering he has no knowledge outside of the dry and hot plains of the west. He had a dream of tropical lands, perhaps take a ship to those rich white wigs who used to control them.

“Can’t we just kill him?” It was James who decided to voice his boredom, but Blanc didn’t humour him. Instead he watched the man as he huffed and puffed and mockingly moo’d at the cows whenever they looked at him.

He contemplated what to tell the man: tell him to shut up or indeed go against himself and humour him. Either way he was not in the mood to speak. He wanted to get out of here, and without the two bodies forced upon him.

“Come on partner, either we kill him or the town’s gunna come for us.” James voice had its usual nonchalant drawl yet Blanc could not fight against the logic. They had no idea if the farmer truly was a good man, and even if he was Blanc did not want another body to follow him around like a kicked dog.

Of course Blanc never did agree nor disagree with James on their current situation, and apparently the man saw no reason to further confront him. That night he heard whispered curses and the soft sound of someone being slapped in the dark.

He knew whatever the farmer did at night had nothing to do with him, but the whispers did not sound in agreement nor in the same tongue. _Oh for fuck’s sake._

Not bothering to dress himself up, Blanc kicked open his door to find both the whore and gambler crouching on the floor facing in the direction of the farmer’s door. That dammed runt.

“Are the two of you planning to kill him?”

James glared and shrugged, “The girlie here ain’t communication’ with me.”

She spat out a curse before giving Blanc his own fair share of them. He wondered if he would ever come to love her. At this point he wondered how she ever managed to stay a whore with such a poisonous mouth.

Without another word he aimed a threatening glare in their direction, “Scoot. If I find the two of you doin’ this again I will kill you and hang your skins on the wall. We are not the killing the farmer. Kill the man and be dead tomorrow.”

Azucar cursed and scurried away, leaving behind an almost comically sad James.

_… … …_

Blanc had no idea how long it’s been since the farmer took them in, but he feared that perhaps he wasn’t giving enough death-threats because the farmer was beginning to talk to him a lot more. It started as morning greetings, evolving into questions about his day (usually answered with mocking moo’s) and has no become a daily pestering about his personal life.

Blanc didn’t realise this until the farmer asked him about the possibility of a wife in his life. At first he wanted to be cruel and ask the same of the farmer, but it dawned on him that he has answered questions like that before.

Where was he from? What was his job? What places has he seen? How did he meet the whore and gambler?

And now, where was his wife?

“A woman is good for one thing: fucking.” The answer seem to offend the farmer to a great degree.

“That is… very sad. Women can be capable of so many things, and yet you see them as…?”

Blanc nodded to his own words. A firm believer and he would not be so easily shaken from his own beliefs. The only women he has every considered to have any worth were those either too young or too old to be taken, the rest of them should know their place.

Sean of course were drawn to the line of questioning, “You ever taken a woman by force?”

“Only if she asked for it.” Too late he realised what his words sounded like, if the paling and wide eyes of the poor farmer’s face was by any indication.

“The whores, they make requests. I am willing to follow them.”

Sean nodded to himself and went quiet, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. Blanc couldn’t feel sorry for the man, he brought it upon himself. Yet at the same time he was so amused at the pure innocence of the man. He was sure the man has had his fair share of experiences, yet he was so… _innocent._

He wondered if he would have tolerated James and Azucar more if they weren’t such devils.

“You’ve kept us here for a while, any reasons why? We ain’t that much help. Your cows are as useless as it is.” Blanc really was curious. It’s been a while since he had to fight off some cocky shit, and he was growing restless.

Sean gave a weak smile, one which suddenly made Blanc grow a little soft.

“It really is dangerous out here. For some reason since you came people haven’t been bothering us so much. I already lost ten of my cows and two bulls a while back, just because I’m expendable. Also, the sheriff will hunt you down if you leave this town.”

“Sounds awfully like this whole town’s a jail to me.”

“No, we’re just very… scared.”

And it were with those final words that the farmer bid his farewell and left Blanc to find James and watch the cows. It was the longest he and the farmer spoke, and for some strange reason he wanted it to happen more.

Perhaps tomorrow he could convince the man to watch the cows with him instead of James. His back itched, and his heart clenched as he played with the fond idea.


End file.
